


— what dreams are made of;

by defectiveconnor



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Soulmate AU, arthur deserves better, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defectiveconnor/pseuds/defectiveconnor
Summary: maybe it’ll easier to pretend he doesn’t have one, in the future.summary: angsty soulmate!au (you dream your soulmate, but very basically such as their silhouette or the view of their back, with a shady “whatever you dream I dream”); specific meds will have the unwanted side effect of stopping those dreams





	— what dreams are made of;

**Author's Note:**

> note: takes place during arthur’s childhood (and so his soulmate’s too) when the dreams start happening, as a kind of setup

Arthur is all but two hands, and maybe a thumb or pinky, of age when it starts.

He doesn’t dream often, even though — if anyone’d ask — his mother would say he was an avid dreamer when he was even smaller. He sleeps deep sometimes, and late when someone forgets to wake him up; and other times, so light that he can’t go to sleep at all, woken up by creaks, lights, and anything that could make him jump. He has nightmares, too, remembers some, tries to forget others. So when it starts, he knows it’s different, has been told about it by many a doctor (never his mother), thinks it’s normal.

The dreams start off ordinary, once a week; colourful and bright, and vibrant, and entirely the opposite of his own. Often, he’s in a garden, a park, that he’s never seen before. He can see tulips, daisies, dandelions, and equally smell them. Freshly cut grass, clean air, no buildings or grime or car fumes. Definitely not Gotham. The thoughts bring a smile to his face, feeling at peace, at rest, _safe_. He hears laughter, sometimes, joyful and shimmering but never within reach. For the first few weeks, he tries to find them; walks through the garden that expands into fields, a nightly adventure, pilgrimage.

Every week, he tries, and every week he only grazes upon hints that they exist beyond the evergreens of these dreams. Movement out of the corner of his eyes, or the odd silhouette that’s never quite still, or even: the one time it seemed to stand still, until he got close enough to realise they were facing away from him and, in his hesitation to speak up, let them vanish from sight.

He doesn’t notice, in his perceived game of tag, his escape from reality, the grass becoming duller with every step forward.

Two months in, things take a turn for the worse. The evergreen fields are yellow, with his beloved flowers dried up. He can’t smell freshly cut grass, but the familiar fumes of his home city. His stomach churns.

Their silhouette is even harder to find in this place, and he gets the distinct feeling that he shouldn’t be here — like that birthday party he went to, when the birthday boy told him his mother had made him invite _everyone_, _“And that means I had to invite you, too.” _with a sour face and disdain.

Over time, he finds himself avoiding the silhouette. They startle him, not in the nice pleasant way he’d daydreamed, but in the way where he feels like he’s the intruder, a bother, an outsider. He grows fearful, the evergreens grow darker, and the dreams are no longer an escape from reality but just as harsh.

***

In the worst week of all since it began, Arthur’s lost in the garden, face to face with who — or what — he’s been avoiding.

They lunge at him — hard, _feral_. 

It hurts but nauseating fear is first to the scene. It drowns him with a forced swallow, an anchor down his stomach, and he cowers into himself. He curls and he tenses, feels his fingers frozen from dread, his chest tight from a freight train of torment and shock.

Arthur’s world is entirely black. He only realises why once his eyes, tightly shut in preparation of the attack, are pried open by a deafening ring. In a vast abyss, he sees a solitary door, a small hint of white light filtering through the frames. No impact. Hesitantly, he unfurls from his stance, slowly coming to a rise once he realises there is nowhere to go but forward. His steps are uncertain, shaken, like the small peace might be ripped away from him at any second. He can’t see the floor, isn’t sure if he’ll just fall through with any given wrong move.

It’s cold to even his touch, the door, as he rests small fingers against it. Standing on his tippy toes, straining to reach the rectangular window, he _hears_ them: Hears whispers, hushed tones, a conversation entirely too muffled for him to comprehend. Out of reach. Pressing his ear again the door is futile, thick metal distorting the sounds further.

The tips of his fingers grip at the edges of the window on the door, grasping, pulling, hoping to reach, to _see_. It’s with a horrifying screech that the window surreally slides down the door, as though melting, finally at his eye level. Arthur cringes at the sound, and it echoes through the endless chasm, but in the desperation of his discovery he forgets and just stares.

There’s a living room, colourful and bright, and vibrant, and entirely the opposite of his own. The furniture is sparse, and he sees cardboard boxes littered around the place. Some ready to burst open from a messy tape job, and others so neatly packed it’s as though they’d been bought in that state. His eyes are drawn to the noises — three shadows, silhouettes, grouped together near a large dinner table (rich mahogany, like the ones he’d seen in those catalogues near reception). Two big shadows, he corrects himself, and a smaller one. His eyes grow wider, by a fraction.

It’s like they’re made of air, with wisps of smoke curling and wavering around the shapes, almost as if not entirely there. The smaller one, they’re — they’re around Arthur’s size, if not a little bigger. He would cross his heart though, if anyone’d ask, that they’d appeared much bigger when —

He sniffles through his nose, the cool air stuffing it uncomfortably. It seems to be the wrong move, though.

Three heads twist with pin-sharp accuracy.

They don’t have faces, but the deep unsettled fear washes over him like splashes of water during Gotham’s infamous winters, and he _knows_ they’re looking straight into his eyes.

Only one is front of him now, known without guessing, the small one, separated only by the door. He’s frozen, like his fingers, but the illusion is broken and his body spasms when he hears, witnesses, the brutal crack of their head against the window_. One, two, three_. Ghastly arms reach through the window, stretching hard metal like it’s pliable, and their form seeps through — viscous, like tar, and not at all like the smoke he thought he’d seen.

Arthur is terrified; his stomach feeling like a void, sucking his heart down as it drops again, stumbling backwards as they advance on him. He tries to run, futile, falls when his legs give out, and _bruises_ when he feels hands like _claws _twisting him around.

They’re on him, encompassing him, and they do feel bigger than before, even when he knows they're not. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand, _doesn’t understand_ until they dig _deeper_ into his shoulders and he lets out a pained cry. He looks at them, a plea in a panicked state, and sees it — human eyes, their eyes, their eyes, theireyes_theireyestheireyes, **your**_ eyes and, within them, _hatred_.

He wakes up crying, inconsolable for the rest of the day.

(even as his mother runs her fingers through his hair, even as he tells her about the stranger haunting his dreams)

***

Arthur is too young to know what being pitied looks like, but he still does. He doesn’t know what things ‘should’ be like, only what they are, and realisations of the mismatch are slow to come even though they will — in time.

He’s old enough to see the hesitation in his doctor’s eyes and the way the man talks as though he’s not there, bypassing him in favour of speaking to his mother. _Maybe it’s a secret_, and that’s why the man’s frown lines seem so deep. He’s old, and he’s speaking in hushed tones, so it must be a secret. Occasionally, Arthur sees him glance over amidst the secrecy. When this happens, the doctor’s frowns deepen and his voice seems to get even quieter, so Arthur looks at the ground — maybe that way he won’t be a bother.

When they get home, his mother treats him to the burger and fries that were picked up on the way there. She sits him on the couch, and produces an orange cylinder from a brown paper bag. He knows it’s a pillbox, because he’s seen those before (away from reach, in the bathroom counters), but he first thinks about one of those party bubble bottles. He offers her some of his food, even though he’s hungry enough to scarf it down and then some, and hides the secret relief once Penny gives a small smile and waves the offer down calmly.

It’s not a surprise to anyone except Arthur that the greasy, _delicious_, food is a means to a different conversation entirely.

That night, he finds out about the world of pharma. His mum calls him ’_Happy_’, even when he’s sure he’s anything but, and she tells him that it’s all for the better. She tells him that, with time, the pills will make things easier even if it makes those _dreams_ go away — severing any tie he has to _them_. It’s not that Arthur doesn’t believe her but it just adds salt to an ever-growing wound when his face unknowingly shows uncertainty, and his mother softly chimes (_chides_): “Wouldn’t they be a little nicer if they really liked you, honey?”

That night, the food grows cold perched up on the coffee table. 

Arthur struggles to chew through a single fry, and wipes away at his blurring vision before his mother can take notice. His heart feels too heavy for his chest, and he can disguise the laughter punching his throat as a reaction to the TV skits — _The Murray Show_, he notes, fast becoming his favourite — which makes it just a little easier to push down.

It’s not like they wanted him, anyway.

(even if he can’t forget your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> an: i just had this idea playing around and wanted to write up the background, this is more of an exploration rn so not too sure what to make of it yet,, thanks for reading!


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